


Stacked Like a Deck of Cards

by Thette



Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV)
Genre: Body Image, Body Worship, Fluff, M/M, Not Beta Read, Oblivious Ray Palmer, Scars, Self-Indulgent, Shameless Objectification
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-13
Updated: 2018-12-13
Packaged: 2019-09-17 20:23:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16981200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thette/pseuds/Thette
Summary: This is a piece of shameless Mick Rory objectification. Sorry not sorry.





	Stacked Like a Deck of Cards

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Beware_The_Ravenstag](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beware_The_Ravenstag/gifts).



> Happy birthday, Beware_The_Ravenstag!
> 
> I started thinking about how both Ray and Mick are built, but in so different ways, and this ficlet was born...

Ray fiddled with his gloves. Just one more angular momentum finetuning, and these should be ready to go. He put the glove on, stretched his fingers into a firing position, and took aim for the empty crate.

_kabloom_

He was thrown back with considerable force, right into Mick's chest. (He'd know that scent anywhere. Smoke and too much aftershave.) It took him a few moments to readjust, and in that time, his treacherous brain had started telling him all about how it felt to be leaning against his crush. His shameful, never spoken aloud, crush. Ray shook his head, clearing out the last afterimages, and looked up. " _Wow_ ," said a voice in his head, " _are those eyes hazel_?"

"Watch it, Haircut," Mick said, pushing him away and leaving the room, muttering under his breath. Ray followed him with his eyes, until he remembered that he was supposed to work on his gloves. 

***

The rhythmic whirring of the treadmill helped him clear his mind. Helped him think about something other than being pressed against a solid, muscular chest.

...oh, no, he was doing it again...

Ray was tall and muscular himself, looking exactly like you'd expect a billionaire to look, after years and years of having access to the best nutritionists and personal trainers. (His bone-headed stubbornness helped, too. Once he set his mind on a workout routine, he'd be sure to follow it.) He'd been scrawny as a kid, but once they discovered his gluten intolerance, he'd caught up with his peers and outgrown them.

Mick looked nothing like that. He was built, but not the kind of muscles that came from body building or calisthenics. No, he looked like he'd spent most of his life doing manual labor, and most of his free time brawling in bars. He was incredibly strong, able to haul Ray out of a burning building, which Ray did not appreciate being reminded of. Oh, who was he kidding? He loved remembering that particular mission, and the way Mick sat by his cot in the med bay afterwards. And now, he had another memory to complement that one. That chest... Fat and muscles, but no flab. Just... A solid presence. The phrase "built like a brick shithouse" came to mind, and Ray scolded himself for the coarse language. 

He wondered if masturbation would help, but he had to concede that it'd probably just make things worse.

...didn't mean he wasn't going to do it...

***

"Whatcha staring at, Haircut?" Mick grumped. The answer _should_ be obvious, given that he was naked again in the gym, and Ray couldn't tear his eyes away from his gorgeous form. Ray could see his shoulders pull up almost to his ears as he turned his back towards him.

_"Abort, abort!"_ screamed the sensible part of Ray's mind.

_"No freaking way,"_ replied the baser instincts.

_"He looks uncomfortable,"_ a quieter voice piped up, and Ray felt a warm wave of mixed emotions wash over him.  There was shame, over his damn crush and his wandering eyes. Bros didn't ogle their bros, right? And Mick had never shown any signs of returning his interest, had he? There was sadness, over hurting his friend, and a deep fondness, that threatened to overwhelm him.

"Sorry," he croaked out.

"Thought I got away all those times, did ya?" Mick cleared his throat. "Gideon said she'd take them away if I asked, but they're mem'ries."

Wait, what? Memories? Take what away? Ray was completely lost. And then he understood, like a flash of lightning. (Or maybe a flash fire?) He approached Mick carefully, and rested a hand on his bare shoulder. It was rough in his hand, deep scars and healthy skin interwoven.

"Mick, no. I'm staring because you're hot."

One raised eyebrow was all he got in return. Yeah, that had been a pun. And Mick clearly didn't believe him. Well, then, this was the man whose face could be a poster for TMI, so...

"I'm not kidding. I've touched myself to memories of your bod---"

Before he could finish that sentence, he was kissed to within an inch of his life. Once Ray caught up, he wrapped himself around Mick, trying to get as close to him as possible.

"Hey, Haircut, ever fucked on a workout bench?"


End file.
